My Coffee Shop Angel II

[A continuation of My Coffee Shop Angel]

Y’know, I noticed you as soon as you walked in the café. I could see straight away that you were special because you had a kind of glow about you… I guess you could call it an aura, and it’s strange but you’re not the kind of guy I’d normally feel this way about; you’re not my usual type, y’know? Even when I took your order I was a little unsure about you; the way you were all shy about talking to me, like you’d never spoken to a girl before. Like I say, not my usual type. So anyway, I started thinking that maybe… I dunno… maybe I was wrong about you? But when I handed over the change — well, that’s when it happened. I don’t think our hands touched but they got close enough, and all of a sudden I got the flashes like I usually do. They weren’t strong ones — like I say, I don’t think we touched — but they were enough for me to know I was right about you all along. A car weaves; a girl is buried; a man is hanged. I wasn’t sure what it all meant but I thought I might as well go with the usual routine; there’d be plenty of opportunities to bail out if I was wrong. So I grabbed a slip from the pile under the counter and handed it over, making sure I held onto it a second longer than usual just to get your attention. Then I turned to make the coffee and started thinking about what I’d seen. I nearly frothed the milk over the side of the jug while I was mulling it over, but pulled it away just in time. That would’ve been embarrassing, y’know? And I had to look as perfect and infallible as I could to keep the illusion up… but, I dunno, maybe next time I will screw something up; maybe the sympathy vote would help sell it? Hmm. Well, anyway, when I turned round with the coffee I could see you were going to start asking awkward questions so I got in there first; might as well string you along a little just to keep up the mystery, right?

Hey, you still with me? You getting all this? I’m telling you all this for your own benefit. I want you to know exactly what I was doing, and what a pathetic little fuck-up you are. Because you brought this on yourself, you little shit. You’re a killer; you know that? A fucking killer, and it’s better all round that I take you out now. So you remember that. You fucking remember that.

Okay. So where was I? Right, you’ve got your coffee — oh, and yeah, don’t think I didn’t work out what was going on with your little bit of play-acting, pretending like you didn’t know what you wanted to order; it was all a little too rehearsed, so just rememb… no, never mind. So, you’ve got your coffee and you’ve sat down, and I see you staring at your coffee. Then the timer goes off, so I bring your sandwich over, take a breath, then launch into the usual spiel; y’know, the bit about being an angel and all that. You just kinda stared at me, all wide-eyed and silent, and I knew — I fucking knew! — that you’d bought it hook, line and sinker. Then I head back over to the counter and start playing the waiting game. Every so often I’d look up to check you hadn’t run out on me but you were just sat there, staring at the paper. Oh, and you were staring for ages; I mean, I don’t know what was going through your head but… well, whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty interesting. Either that or you’re just a slow reader.

But you’re not, are you? You’re a clever guy, supposedly; I could tell that much. You should know what can happen if you get pissed then try to drive home. People can die. They can fucking die. Oh, you can whimper all you like; it doesn’t bring them back. You can’t bring them back. They’re gone, and that’s it, and you can’t take all that guilt you’ve got and turn it into something good, can you? You either push it down or let it swallow you. And you’re the weak kind, aren’t you? You’d just lay back and let it take over. And you know what? You fucking deserve it, you worthless piece of shit.

So you’re there, staring at your intellectual newspaper or whatever, and it’s getting close to 6, and people start leaving and then it’s just me and you left. I’m all fidgety and anxious when it gets to this part, before the adrenaline’s properly kicked in, so I’m just kind of loitering behind the counter, waiting for you to snap out of it. And then you do, and I’m like Christ, about time! because any longer and I would’ve had to come over and slap you round the chops myself. So once you’re back in the room I nip over and hold my hand out, waiting for you to take it, and then you do and then suddenly I see everything. It’s late and you’re at a party — it’s Jon’s birthday party, right? — and he’s offered you the sofa to crash on but you’ve pulled — somehow, you’ve pulled — and you just want to get her home and fuck her and oh my God now I see how you did it, she’s barely conscious, you sick shit, so there’s no way she’s putting up a fight, Christ, you’ve really got a way with women, haven’t you? So you somehow manage to haul her to your car and seat her in the passenger seat, and you make some half-arsed attempt at putting her seatbelt on but you get distracted and go for a quick grope instead, and she kind of limply waves her arms to push you away, and you make a mental note to fucking punish her later, oh yeah, you’re the man, aren’t you? You’re the fucking man. So you shut the door, and she slumps over, semi-comatose, with her head coming to rest on the window, small patches of fog forming on it by her nose and mouth. You walk round to the driver’s side, open the door and haul yourself in. Oh, sure, you take the time to put your seatbelt on, don’t you? So after briefly scrabbling about it slides in with a neat click and you’re ready to go. Turn the key, put it in gear, handbrake off, and you’re away. You’re driving carefully, aren’t you? Because of course, someone crawling along the road at 15 miles an hour with no headlights on never looks suspicious, right? But you’re finding it hard to concentrate, and you keep looking over at what you’re going to be enjoying later on, and when your hand’s not resting on the gearstick it’s sliding up over her knee, and she kind of waves her hands again and grunts something at you. You should’ve taken the hint; you really should’ve. Because while you’re trying to stroke up her thigh and beyond, the car’s tracing a curved path along the road, drifting further and further and your right foot’s feeling heavier and heavier, gently squeezing the accelerator a little more with each passing moment until FUCK! And I only see a few scattered moments from then on; your head jerks down to meet the expanding airbag; her limp body is thrown forwards, head meets the windscreen, blood splatters, cracks radiate from the point of impact; six men carry a coffin out of a Church to a waiting grave; you weep bitter tears of equal parts remorse and self-pity as you kick away the chair, then spend your final moments twitching and jerking at the end of a rope.

And that’s what this was all about; not what you’ve done, but what you would do. Just going by how fresh the images seemed, I’d guess that it all would’ve happened by the end of next month. So, I could either leave you alone and let you kill some poor girl who was too drunk to resist, or I could take you out now and save everyone the bother. I mean, it’s not like you were going to find a cure for cancer or anything in the next few weeks; what point would there be in letting you live? The way I look at it, I’ve done everyone a favour. Me too, as it happens; it was the weekend when we last had one of you in the caff, and I’m hungry again. Fuck, am I hungry.

Still there? Good. Because I want you to feel this. You might pray for a quick death, but I’ll tell you now — you won’t get one. I won’t let you.